


the pain in our veins is hereditary

by kazhan



Series: 616!Margarita verse [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: An attempt was made at sex-ed, Blood and Injury, Dehumanization, Gen, Past Child Abuse, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), suicide ideation, the consequences of Jango Fett's A+ parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazhan/pseuds/kazhan
Summary: Darth Vader has a job for Boba: track down a rogue clone, capture him and deliver him. Alive and unharmed, the Sith Lord insisted.Boba knows it won't be easy.He doesn't expect it to bethishard.
Relationships: Boba Fett & CT-7567 | Rex
Series: 616!Margarita verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2215614
Comments: 13
Kudos: 67
Collections: into the margarita verse





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello there!  
> Welcome to the first fic of the Margarita multiverse! This AU wouldn't exist without the wonderful clowns I met in the maulrex circus, so I want to thank all of you guys first.
> 
> Some of you might already know a little bit about what the Margarita multiverse is because of [this little comic](https://kazhan-draws.tumblr.com/post/643225905192452096/into-the-margarita-rexverse-an-au-in-which-rex) I made a month ago. It starts with a very simple thought: what if Rex took a long overdue vacation after Order 66 and ended up traveling with Boba while his very concerned friend (Ahsoka), his angry ex (Maul) and his scary ex-boss (Vader) all looked for him.
> 
> And then it got so complicated we decided this wasn't just an AU, but the start of an insane multiverse.  
> Welcome to the 616 verse - yes, this is a Marvel reference, because I am a Nerd - where everything is a mess but also... almost normal, too? 
> 
> Anyway, thanks [reyiosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reyiosa) for going over this for me! 
> 
> Finally, this fic is already written and ready to be posted, so you can expect an update on Saturday and Monday for the last two chapters!

Boba hums with satisfaction. The kid didn’t lie, there _is_ an old battered ship on the beach. The ramp is lowered and covered in sand, so it must have been here for a while now, at least a few weeks. The ship fits the description Boba has been given and there is no sign of the clone yet but he’s confident he’s found him this time. Boba takes a deep breath and grips his blaster tighter. Clone troopers are risky targets. No matter how much Boba despises them, he can’t deny how skilled they are and the few who managed to escape whatever happened to them and turned them into mindless droids are particularly dangerous. 

Boba has an advantage over the other bounty hunters. The clones are morons who think whoever has the same face as them is a brother and he could make this a lot easier and avoid a fight if he wanted to.

But that would mean looking at them in the eye without being able to hide behind the visor of his helmet. It would mean watching their expression grow from disbelief to genuine relief and happiness at the sight of him, only to turn into shock and betrayal when he shoots them. 

More importantly, it would be acknowledging a connection between them, and Boba can’t do that.

He likes to think his father wouldn't like it. Not that Jango ever cared about the clones - he was the one who always told Boba they were nothing more than canon fodder after all - but he would have found such a ruse dishonorable. Boba would rather eat his own blaster than do anything to disappoint his father. 

So it won't be easy, but he won't lose a fight to a clone. They're bigger and stronger than he is but he isn't a kid anymore and he just needs to be faster and smarter to win. Which he usually is.

It doesn’t help that he’s not supposed to kill this clone. Vader wants him alive and something tells Boba it’s not just for interrogation. It’s in the way the Sith Lord talked about the clone, how he insisted Boba should do his best not to harm him. Vader usually doesn’t really care about Boba roughening up his bounties a little bit but for some reason, this one is different. 

Boba is a professional, so he’ll do his best, but he won’t _die_ for a job. If he does end up injuring the clone, he supposes he’ll just have to slap a bacta patch and hope it heals by the time he delivers him to Vader. 

Boba carefully makes his way towards the ship. With a swipe of his tongue, he activates the thermal vision of his helmet and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips when he sees the red silhouette of the clone inside the ship. He's up and moving and there's no way to know what he's doing exactly but it's not like Boba cares.

As he gets closer, Boba hears noises coming from deeper inside the ship and scrunches up his nose when he realizes it's actually some pop music from a popular band during the Clone Wars. 

Of course the clone would have shit tastes in music.

At least he won't hear Boba approach.

Boba slips inside the ship and advances carefully. The clone is probably in the living quarters and that’s where Boba goes, careful not to make any noise or trigger any traps, but there doesn’t seem to be. What an idiot. Booby traps are one of the first things Boba installed aboard the Slave I to make sure no one could sneak up on him when he’s grounded or try to steal his ship.

Boba can’t help but wonder what Vader wants with him. He has more than enough clones to play with, Boba has seen them, so what’s so special about him? Boba’s done his research, the clone used to be a captain in the 501st and the Legion now works directly under Vader’s command, so maybe he used to work for him?

According to what Boba knows of Vader - and it isn’t much, but it’s enough - he seems like the kind of guy who’d have traitors executed the second he got his hands on them. So why ask Boba to find this one and return him unharmed? 

Maybe he knows things he shouldn’t. Not that Boba cares but… well, maybe he’s a bit curious. Vader is weird, but he got even weirder when talking about how important it was that Boba found the clone and made sure he wasn’t hurt.

The door to the living quarters is open. Boba takes a deep breath, tightens his grip on his blaster and slips inside without a sound.

Boba freezes. It’s stupid, it’s unprofessional and he’ll beat himself up over it later, if he makes it out alive. But the clone’s naked ass is the first thing he sees and for some reason, Boba’s first thought is that he must spend a lot of time sunbathing entirely naked because his impressive tan is perfectly even. The clone is humming to the awful song he’s listening to, hips swaying to its rhythm as he’s fixing himself a drink - something alcoholic, from the bottle he’s holding - and Boba is hit by the fact that it’s only nine in the karking morning.

And then he remembers why he’s here, what he is supposed to be doing instead of gawking at the clone’s naked shebs, but it’s too late.

The clone finishes making his drink and turns around, his eyes widening when he finds Boba standing there like an idiot, his blaster pointed at him. He swears as Boba presses the trigger and dodges the stunning bolt by throwing himself onto the floor. The glass he was holding crashes onto the floor, spilling its content and glass everywhere. The clone immediately scrambles behind the counter to dodge another bolt. Boba grits his teeth and rounds the corner of the counter, ready to shoot, but the clone is already waiting for him and Boba barely has the time to dodge the hand aiming for his leg. The clone immediately surges to his feet and Boba takes a step back to fire his blaster, but the clone grabs his hand and slams it on the counter with enough strength to make Boba lose his grip on his blaster with a hiss of pain. 

Boba snarls and headbutts the clone. He groans and staggers but his grip on Boba’s wrist remains firm. Boba unsheathes his vibroblade and dives in, mostly to get the clone to release him. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even budge and Boba has to rein in his strength and deviates his trajectory at the last second.

The blade grazes the clone’s flank and his eyes widen when he realizes what Boba just did. He frowns, startled, and looks up, blood streaming down his probably broken nose. 

“Who sent you?” he rasps. 

The accent is all wrong, but the voice is the same and for a second, Boba stops breathing. He blinks. The clone’s face is slightly different - younger, softer, the scars aren't there either - and his hair is _kriffing blond_. Suddenly, Boba wants nothing more than to claw at the clone’s face and mess it up until he can’t see any trace of Jango when he looks at him.

Boba raises his free hand and attacks again. This time, the blade traces a red line across the clone’s chest and he hisses at the sting. Boba aims for the hand still wrapped around his wrist, but the clone suddenly pulls on it. Tears gather at the corner of Boba’s eyes as it feels like his arm is being pulled out of its socket and he can’t help the cry of pain he lets out. The clone is _strong_ , a lot stronger than Boba is and it’s _unfair_. He has no choice but to follow the motion and finds himself with the clone pressed against his back, his grip on his wrist firm. Boba snarls and forgets all about having to deliver the clone unharmed - he’s already bleeding anyway - and shifts his grip on his blade before aiming behind him, hoping to get the clone in the flank. But another hand closes around his and before Boba can register what is happening, guides the blade towards his own thigh.

The blade sinks into his flesh, making him howl in pain.

The clone immediately lets go of his hand to wrap his arm around Boba’s neck.

He starts squeezing.

Boba’s eyes widen and he trashes and snarls, but he can’t escape the clone’s hold. 

“Yield,” the clone snarls.

Boba only struggles harder. He can’t breathe and his thigh _burns_ , he can feel the blood pouring down his leg, drenching his flight suit. His vision starts to blur at the lack of oxygen and Boba almost succumbs to panic, but that’s when his father’s training and the past eight years of surviving mostly on his own kick in. The fear is locked behind a wall, contained with the pain and all the other feelings and sensations that’ll only interfere with his thoughts. The clone is too strong. He missed his chance when he gaped at him instead of shooting the second he saw him and the shame that follows this realization is shoved away as well. 

Now’s not the time.

The clone could have snapped his neck by now, but he must have conflicted feelings since he realized Boba wasn’t trying to kill him. Or maybe he just has questions. 

It gives him time, but not much, because he’s already feeling light-headed and all the blood he’s currently losing is going to be a big issue if he doesn’t act quickly.

It’s not the first time Boba has to neutralize a target instead of killing them. He _is_ prepared for this. Boba reaches for one of the pouches on his belt to retrieve the hypo hidden there. The clone notices, but it’s too late. 

Boba stabs the clone’s arm with the needle.

The clone hisses, mutters something and his hold around Boba’s neck tightens. Boba wheezes and starts counting.

Finally, the hold around his neck goes slack and the clone drops down, unconscious. Boba gasps, air rushing inside his lungs, and falls onto his knees. The motion sends a jolt of pain through his thigh and Boba hisses. 

Gritting his teeth, he brings a shaky hand to the blade still stuck in his thigh. A simple brush of his fingers against the handle is enough to tear a whimper out of his throat and Boba has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He needs to take it out. But he has no idea how close to the artery the blade is and if he takes it out…

“Kriff,” Boba swears, voice hoarse.

He opens his eyes and tears his cloak off his shoulder. Boba takes another smaller blade from his left boot and cuts a smaller piece of cloth to wrap tightly around his leg. Every motion sends a new jolt of pain through his leg and Boba breathes harshly through his nose, sweat dripping down his face and back as he finally closes his hand around the handle of the vibroblade.

“One,” he starts counting, “two. Three.”

He takes it out, lets it clatter to the floor and quickly wraps another piece of cloth around his thigh to stop the bleeding. 

Boba drops his head against the counter behind him and allows himself a few seconds to gather his thoughts.

He’s alive. Everything hurts - including his pride - but he’s alive and the clone is unconscious, which means that Boba _won._ Boba looks down at the clone with a sneer. His face is covered in blood and he is still very much naked. Who wanders around naked in an unlocked ship?

“A karking di’kut, that’s who,” Boba hisses.

He’s gonna have to drag the unconscious clone to the Slave I and the thought immediately makes Boba groan. With a sigh, Boba activates the autopilot of the ship to his location and hits the back of his head against the counter again.

And again. 

He isn’t dead yet, so that means the blade probably didn’t touch the artery. That’s nice. But he is still losing blood and the sedative he gave the clone won’t last for long. They have a faster metabolism than most humans and Boba was only carrying one dose. He needs to get the clone on the Slave I and take care of his wound. 

Plus, he wasn’t the only one Vader sent after the clone and the last thing he needs is someone showing up to steal his bounty. It might go against the Guild’s code, but Boba isn’t naive enough to believe everyone respects it. 

Boba allows himself a few more minutes, until he can hear the sound of the Slave I approaching and landing near the clone’s ship. 

He’s been through worse than a wound to the thigh. He survived imprisonment on Coruscant, where Bossk wasn’t always there to defend him. He’s had to make it back to the Slave I after getting his ass handed out to him more than once. It’s not even the first time Boba has been stabbed.

So he ignores the pain and pushes on his legs to stand up.

Boba grabs the counter to steady himself and takes a deep breath. The Slave I isn’t that far. He just needs to drag the clone there and lock him up. Trying not to put too much weight on his injured leg, Boba bends down to grab the clone by his ankles and pulls.

Kriff, but he weighs a karking ton, and he isn’t even wearing any armour. Actually, he isn’t wearing anything and Boba scrunches up his nose because that’s a lot more of the clone he ever wanted to see. 

Boba doesn’t know how long it takes him, but it feels like _ages_ before he reaches the ramp of the ship. By then his thigh hurts so much every motion is torture and he can feel the blood dripping alongside his leg. There’s a trail following him and he has no idea how much he has lost, but it feels like too much already. 

The thought of dragging the clone’s naked shebs into the sand doesn’t even comfort him at this point. Boba unlocks the Slave I with shaky fingers and drags the clone inside. Once onboard, Boba drops the clone’s legs and immediately reaches for his helmet to take it off. Sweat is covering his face and his wet curls stick to his hot forehead. Boba takes a second to simply breathe despite his burning lungs and tries to ignore the dark spots dancing before his eyes. 

He should take him downstairs, to one of the cells he had built in a few years ago, but Boba doesn’t think he can make it that far and he can’t risk collapsing like an idiot before securing the clone and making sure he can’t escape. 

Boba drops his helmet and goes for a pair of binders instead. He closes the binders around the clone’s wrists and drags him closer to the wall before turning on the magnetic field to bind the handcuffs to the wall behind the clone. Boba wants nothing more than to slide down to the ground and close his eyes right now, but he needs to get the medkit and fix his leg before he bleeds out entirely. Gritting his teeth, Boba straightens up, but pain courses through his leg, his vision darkens and his head spins. 

He doesn’t even have enough strength left to try and prevent his fall before the world turns black. 

“Did you have a good nap, Bob’ika?” his father asks, a smile tugging at his lips as he gently strokes Boba’s hair. 

Boba frowns. Jango raises an eyebrow and stops petting his hair. “Boba?”

“You were gone,” he says accusingly.

Jango looks confused. “I stayed here the whole time, ad’ika.”

Boba shakes his head. “You were gone. You _died._ ”

His father’s eyes widen in shock. He opens his mouth, then closes it as something akin to guilt crosses his features.

“It was just a nightmare, Boba,” he whispers and resumes stroking Boba’s hair.

Boba bats his hand away and straightens up to properly glare at his father. “You’re _dead,_ ” he says again. “You’re dead and this isn’t real.”

Jango smiles mournfully. “It could be,” he whispers softly.

Boba’s breath hitches. How could it be? His father is dead, he saw it happening, saw as the Jedi charged towards him and cut off his head. He’s seen it happen again and again, almost every night for the past eight years. 

“You left me,” Boba rasps, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

His father reaches out to cup his cheek and his hand is so warm Boba chokes on a sob and leans into the touch. 

“I’m here now,” his father says.

“You _left me_ ,” Boba repeats, tears rolling down his cheeks.

His father swore he would always come back. That no matter how long he would be gone on a job, he would always find his way back home, to Boba. He promised and he _lied_ because there is no coming back from getting his head cut off by a Jetii. Boba knows, because he waited until his father’s body grew cold and rigid. Because he remembers trying to drag him out of the arena and failing. He remembers the rage and helplessness when he realized he wasn’t strong enough to give his father proper funerals. He won’t ever forget peeling each piece of armor off his father’s body before being forced to leave him there, alone and surrounded by enemies on the red sand of Geonosis.

Strong arms wrap themselves around him and Boba suddenly finds himself pressed against his father’s chest. Boba tenses and his first reflex is to push him away because no one touches him like this anymore, but his father’s hand cups the back of his head and Boba freezes.

“I’m sorry, ad’ika,” Jango whispers. “I’m sorry you had to go through all this alone.”

Kriff, but he _has_ been so alone. That’s what hurts the most, what he has to live with every day, the fact that there is no one for him out there, that he can only count on himself because there is no one he can trust like he trusted his father. 

Boba stops fighting and buries his face against his father’s chest, sobbing.

“I’m here,” Jango says again and Boba wants nothing more than to believe him.

“I’m so tired, dad,” he chokes.

He’s tired of being alone, tired of being angry all the time, of wanting things he can’t have anymore. He’s tired of being wary of everyone because the few people he made the mistake of trusting always ended up betraying him. He’s _sick_ of having to deal with everything on his own, of coming back to the Slave I and expecting his father to be there, only to find the ship empty.

He’s tired of watching his reflection in the mirror and seeing more and more of his father on his face. 

“I know. You can stop fighting now.”

But he can’t. He can’t stop fighting, this is how he survives, how he makes sure his father’s legacy lives on. It doesn’t matter how tired he is, how much he wants to just stop sometimes, his father didn’t raise a quitter and—

His father didn’t raise a quitter.

Boba feels cold, suddenly. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Dad?” 

“It doesn’t hurt anymore, right? You can let go.”

Boba frowns and tears his face away from his father’s chest to look at him. He is smiling gently but his eyes are empty, cold, and his hold on Boba tightens suddenly. 

“Dad, what are you doing?”

Jango tilts his head. “What are _you_ doing?”

Boba blinks. “I-- I don’t-- I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re dead, and I’m not, and I--”

“Aren’t you?”

“What? No. I’m not dead, I was-- I won the fight. The clone is sedated, I just-- I just passed out. I think.”

Jango looks doubtful. “You’re unconscious and bleeding all over the floor, Bob’ika, there’s nothing you can do,” he says sadly.

“I-- No. I just need to wake up,” Boba argues and tries to push his father away. “Dad, let me go, I need to wake up.”

But his father doesn’t budge and Boba only feels colder despite their proximity. 

“Dad. I need to wake up,” Boba insists and starts trashing. “Dad!”

“Wake _up_ for kriff’s sake!” 

Boba whines as pain flares in his thigh and sluggishly tries to curl on himself, but something nudges his flank again. 

“Hey. Hey, listen to me. You have to stay awake, come on.”

“Dad?” he croaks out.

“Sorry kid, I’m not, but you still have to stay awake.”

Boba’s eyes fly open. The clone. He’s still handcuffed, the binders stuck to the wall and he’s reaching with his left foot, poking at Boba’s ribs to try to keep him awake.

“Stop that,” Boba snarls, or at least he tries to, but it sounds whiny instead of threatening.

“You need to stand up and fix your wound before you bleed out entirely,” the clone says, sounding annoyed.

But he’s right. Boba has no idea how long he’s been laying here but going by the pool of blood underneath him, it’s been a while. He feels weak and the temptation to just close his eyes again is strong, but he knows he’ll die if he doesn’t move now. Boba grits his teeth and puts his hands under his chest, pushes until he’s somewhat kneeling and the pain in his thigh flares up again, making him choke on a cry. 

“Where’s your medkit? You have one, right?”

Of course he does, does he think he’s stupid? But it’s… It’s in the living quarters, _upstairs_ , and Boba doesn’t think he can stand on his feet right now, much less climb a karking _ladder_ to get there. His arms are shaking and Boba straightens up, tries to push on his good leg, but the injured one just won’t obey and Boba snarls, frustrated. 

“Kid. You need to untie me.”

“Kark you,” he hisses, angry tears gathering at the corner of his eyes.

He’s better than this. He’s been through worse. He knows pain, he’s learned all about it in prison. Boba has never failed the capture of a bounty, has never released one before and he’s not about to start now.

“Well then get up.” He’s _trying._ “You can’t, can you?” But he _has to._ “Is the reward you’ll get for capturing me really worth dying for?” It’s not about the _credits_ , it’s about his reputation. It’s about not being able to live with himself if he lets a _clone_ best him. “Your father--”

“ _Don’t_.”

“Kid--”

“I’m not a kid, shut the fuck up! Just stop-- stop _talking_ ,” Boba spits, slamming his fist on the floor. 

The clone snaps his mouth shut, and Boba closes his eyes.

The medkit is too far away. He hates it, but the clone is right, he can’t make it. Boba takes a deep breath and reaches for the control on his vambrace. 

“Up the ladder, the fresher’s on the left. If you’re not back in thirty seconds, I’ll let the binders electrocute you until you shit yourself.”

“Charming,” the clone says, deadpan.

Boba simply glares at him and presses the button to detach the binders from the wall. The clone gets to his feet with a groan and Boba watches him climb the ladder and disappear upstairs. Boba keeps his finger on the switch and starts counting. He’s lost so much blood his head hurts at this point but he focuses on the numbers, his heart beating so fast he feels nauseous. 

Twenty five. The clone jumps down the ladder and Boba breathes out. He’s holding the medkit and Boba makes sure he sees he’s ready to electrocute him if he tries anything.

“Get me the stim,” Boba orders him.

The clone frowns. “That’s a bad idea, kid. Most stims have anticoagulant effects, that’s the last thing you need right now.”

Boba stares at him blankly and the clone sighs. “It makes your blood more fluid.”

Oh. That’s… Boba didn’t know that. Why didn’t he know that? It sounds like something he should know about stims. He frowns. Is the clone trying to trick him? Then again, Boba’s knowledge on stims is limited to _don’t take too much_ and _don’t go for a cheap brand because they’ll probably fuck you up._ Boba _hates_ the feeling of crashing down once the effects dissipate, but he doesn’t use them often and he could really use the boost right now to fix his leg and get rid of the clone as fast as possible.

“Let me fix you up, alright?” the clone asks. 

Boba wants to punch him in the face. 

“Fine,” he grits through his teeth. “If you try anything--”

“I know, I know.”

The clone kneels down next to Boba and puts the medkit down before opening it. It isn’t easy with his wrists still bound together, but he manages to retrieve some bacta injections, a spray-on canister of plasti-coating and a pack of iron tabs. He shuffles closer to Boba who does his best not to shift away from him, and meets his gaze, his hands hovering over Boba’s injured thigh.

Boba nods and the clone starts untying the cloth Boba wrapped around his thigh. Boba hisses and clenches his teeth when he feels the blood oozing out of the wound. The clone is quick and efficient. He injects the bacta near the wound and shakes the canister of plasti-coating before applying some on the wound. Boba jostles at the cold sensation but his thigh finally stops bleeding entirely and the pain slowly starts receding. 

The clone nods, satisfied, and sits on his haunches.

“That should do it for now. Here, take this,” he says and grabs the iron tabs before handing them over to Boba who doesn’t move.

“Go back near the wall,” he tells the clone.

“Look, kid--”

“I said go back.”

The clone glares at him and clenches his jaw, but he drops the iron tabs and goes to sit further with his back against the wall.

“Arms up.”

This time he obeys without a word and Boba immediately activates the magnetic lock. The binders safely stuck to the wall, Boba lets a relieved sigh out and grabs the iron tabs to pop one into his mouth.

“You should take two.”

Boba glares at him, but he takes a second pill.

“Good boy.”

Boba’s glare turns to an annoyed stare as he makes a whole show of pressing the button on his vambrace to send a shock of electricity through the clone. He swears and yelps in pain, making Boba smile with satisfaction before releasing the button. 

“Kark you,” the clone hisses.

Boba chuckles darkly and tries again to stand up, but the wound on his thigh _burns_ and Boba flops back down on the ground with a hiss. He needs to get inside the cockpit and enter the coordinates to Mustafar, but the thought of moving again just now is almost unbearable. 

Boba closes his eyes. 

He has time. The clone isn’t going anywhere and now that his injury is stabilized, he can wait until he feels a bit better. 

“Hey, kid.”

Ugh.

“My name is Boba,” he growls.

“Right,” the clone said, sounding like he doesn’t give a kriff what his name is and… well, Boba supposes that’s fair. “So. Who hired you?”

Boba doesn’t even bother with giving him a reply and keeps his eyes closed, happy to ignore him. 

“Whoever it is, you probably shouldn’t get acquainted with them.”

Boba can’t help it, he snorts this time and cracks one eye open to look at the clone. “What is it with you clones that you can’t help trying to parent me like it’s your karking job to do so? Flash news asshole, it’s not. Never has been, never will be.”

“You clones,” he repeats, his tone flat. “The Prime _did_ tell you where you came from, right?”

Boba glares at him. 

“Right. Good. You got me worried, for a second.”

“You really need to shut the fuck up.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Whoever sent you wants me alive and mostly unharmed so there isn’t much you can do to me if I don’t shut up. I’m going to keep talking until you tell me who wants me.”

Boba scowls. The clone is pretty smart for figuring that out from their fight. It’s annoying. “Or I could sedate you again.”

“Good luck with that. If all you’ve got is what you gave me earlier, you gonna need a whole crate.”

Boba grits his teeth. He really needs to get back up and into the cockpit, where he won’t be able to hear him anymore. But putting pressure on his leg is enough to bring tears to his eyes and Boba is exhausted. He’s really tempted to take that stim shot, now that his wound is more or less stabilized, but crashing down after losing so much blood is going to be _awful_ and Boba doesn’t really feel like puking his guts out in the ‘fresher on top of everything else.

“Boba,” the clone calls, and his voice sounds… weird. Hearing him call his name is also weird. Boba doesn’t like it, it sounds wrong, with his voice that sounds like his father’s but isn’t and never will be. ”Is-- is it Maul?” 

Boba frowns and looks at him. He seems… not afraid, but rather defiant. Like the thought of that Maul person wanting him scares the shit out of him, but also like he’s ready to fight until his last breath before he lets them have him. How come so many people want this guy? Okay, two people aren't _many people_ , but it’s still a lot for a simple clone.

“I have no idea who that is,” Boba says, his tone flat.

Relief immediately washes over the clone’s face and… kriff, but now Boba is curious. 

“Who are they?” he asks the clone who presses his lips together and remains silent. “Tell me who they are and why they want you, and I’ll tell you who hired me.”

The clone squints his eyes at him and seems to ponder the question. 

“He’s a Sith. Well, former Sith, I suppose.”

Boba’s frown deepens. “Like Tyrannus?”

The clone blinks, surprised. “Right. You knew the guy. Yeah, like Tyrannus.”

“And why does this Sith guy want you so badly he’d hire a bounty hunter to find you?”

The clone looks away this time, and there’s a flicker of… something, that crosses his features. Is it _shame?_

“We traveled together for a while. I-- left. I’m pretty sure he didn’t appreciate that.”

Boba tilts his head. “Is that why Vader wants you too? Because you left and he didn’t appreciate that?”

The clone’s breath hitches and his eyes widen as he whips his head to face him so fast Boba can hear his neck make a cracking sound from where he is.

“ _Vader?_ Vader hired you?” he chokes, his voice hoarse.

Boba hums. “Yup. And I’m not the only one he’s sent after you. The reward is _huge._ I don’t know what you did to warrant such interest, but dude’s pretty obsessed with you.”

The clone turns so pale Boba wonders if he’s going to throw up. It’s like he doesn’t even see Boba anymore, his dark eyes suddenly haunted. Silence stretches between them, strangely unnerving when Boba was looking forward to not hearing the clone’s voice anymore.

And for a second, Boba feels a pang of regret. He expected anger, despair. _Something._ But this is just… resignation and somehow that doesn’t sit right with him. He doesn’t know much about the clones, his father always made sure Boba stayed as far away as possible from them, but he’s seen enough to know that they don’t easily give up. 

Boba presses his lips together in a thin line. What does Vader want with him? 

“Just tell him what he wants to know and maybe he’ll kill you fast,” he says after a beat.

The clone doesn’t even react. Boba swallows around the lump in his throat. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling right now, but he doesn’t like it, and that’s enough to give him the strength to straighten up and get on his feet.

Boba ignores the pain to limp towards the ladder. He needs to get rid of the clone. Now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, it _is_ Saturday where I live.
> 
> So, here's chapter two!

Rex barely feels the ship taking off. He’s too wrapped up in his own head, his thoughts spiralling as he remembers the last discussion he had with Maul before he stole another ship and left. It’s been over six months since and Rex has done his best to forget all about it, but Fett’s kid just managed to make it come back to him full force. 

He refused to listen to Maul, refused to believe that Ana-- that his _General_ could do such a thing. Krell’s betrayal had already been too much and Rex had barely known the man, had despised him the second he had realized Krell didn’t care about his men’s lives. The thought of General Skywalker betraying them and the Jedi Order to side with the Emperor was simply inconceivable.

Rex fought by his side for over three years. He _knew_ Anakin Skywalker, and he knew he would rather have died than ever joining the Sith.

 _Who do you think is hiding under that mask, Captain?_ Maul had sneered, and Rex had punched him in the face for daring to imply Anakin could betray them - betray _him_ \- like this.

But Vader wants him. Vader wants him and the Emperor’s lap dog has no reason to be _obsessed_ with a mere clone like Rex. 

Anakin, on the other hand…

Rex makes a pained sound at the thought and closes his eyes. He can’t jump to the wrong conclusions just because Maul’s accusations managed to get under his skin. But Maul has no reason to lie about this, a traitorous voice whispers in his head and just like that, Rex is back to thinking about his General being in that horrifying suit, hunting down Jedi and enforcing the Emperor’s rule.

He wants to believe that the Emperor manipulated Anakin. That he found a way to coerce him into joining him, that he’s only a victim in all this. But the man who went through and survived Umbara can’t help but wonder _when_ his General started working for the enemy.

Is that why he was so quick to jump to Palpatine’s defense when Fives accused him of being behind the whole plot against the Jedi? Was he already working for his new Master then, standing ready to get rid of Fives before he could reveal everything? 

Bile rises in his throat and Rex grits his teeth. 

He can’t go down that route. There is no point in torturing himself with this. He doesn’t know if Vader really is his former General and Rex finds that he doesn’t even want to know. The war is over. They lost - were never meant to win - and no matter who Vader really is, Anakin Skywalker is dead. Just like it doesn’t matter whether or not Cody is alive, because if that chip is still in his head and active, then he isn’t Cody anymore.

Years ago, Rex would have despised himself for thinking that way. For giving up, for acting like a coward. But years ago, Rex had a purpose and his brothers by his side. Rex thought he was fighting for something good. That no matter how fucked up his upbringing and situation was, if he just made it out alive, there could be hope to change things in the future.

There is no hope left, and Rex is _tired._

He’s also cold, his nose hurts like a bitch and he is _starving._

Rex drops the back of his head against the wall behind him with a groan. He let his guard down and he’s paying the price for it. He needs to find a way to escape, because there is no way he is going to let the Prime’s kid take him to Vader, but Rex feels like he missed his opportunity to do so when he treated Boba’s injuries instead of trying to run away.

He knows he should have used the opportunity to run. The kid probably would have gone through with his threat, but how long could he really have tortured Rex with the binders before he would have passed out again from blood loss? 

Rex could have ran away and the kid probably wouldn’t have been able to do much about it.

But Rex remembered dragging his brothers’ dead bodies out of the carcass of the Venator to give them a proper burial. He remembered Jesse’s face covered in blood, his eyes empty and unseeing. Boba might not be a brother, but he still wears their face, and Rex couldn’t bear the thought of being responsible for his death, too.

The list is already too long.

So he stayed, like a karking idiot. 

If Vader truly is Anakin, then he probably wants to know what happened to Ahsoka and where she is. Rex would never tell him, but he doesn’t even _know_ where she is, so no matter how much he tortures him, Rex doesn’t have an answer for him. 

What will he do, then?

Death doesn’t scare Rex. If that’s what awaits him when the Prime’s kid delivers him to Vader, Rex doesn’t even care. Staying alive is a habit at this point, something drilled into him since infancy, but he has also been ready to die since he was conscious enough to realize the longnecks would get rid of him at the first sign of weakness. 

Watching his whole batch burn alive on Geonosis also helped Rex make peace with the fact that he would die young. They weren’t meant to last, it was that simple. They weren’t meant to last and each new day was already a miracle in itself.

Then it became a curse.

So, no, death doesn’t scare him.

The thought of Vader finding a way to control him like the Empire controls his brothers does. It might not have lasted long thanks to Ahsoka, but Rex will never forget what being under the chip’s control felt like. It was like feeling himself die, but worse, because he wasn’t really dead and someone else was making his legs and arms move, his fingers press the triggers of his blasters, his mouth form words. It was like drowning in an ocean of darkness and trying to scream for help, only to feel his mouth and lungs being filled with a pungent, viscous matter. 

Rex would rather slit his own throat than go through that again. 

Rex loses track of time. The cold and hunger make it hard to try to figure out how long it has been since they took off and Rex knows he should try thinking of a way to escape, but it’s hard to think on an empty stomach. He went to bed without eating much yesterday night and he usually knows better than this but to be fair, Rex wasn’t expecting Fett’s kid to show up and disrupt his morning routine. 

The longnecks engineered them to be faster, stronger and more resilient than most humans, but the clones are useless on an empty stomach and being hungover on top of everything else definitely doesn’t help. 

Rex dozes off, unable to keep his eyes open and focus when it’s so cold and his head hurts. He is startled awake by the sound of Fett getting down the ladder and immediately lets a pained groan out at the jolt of pain that goes through his cramped arms to his shoulders. 

The kid immediately freezes at the sound and blinks owlishly at him, like he forgot Rex was here. He does look like he has been sleeping too, there’s a red mark on his cheek and his curls are plastered to the left side of his head.

And then Rex realizes he can’t feel the ship’s engines humming under his shebs and pales a bit.

“Are we there yet?” he drawls with all the bravado he can muster.

The kid scowls at him. “Fuel stop,” he says and gets off the ladder with a wince. 

Rex watches him retrieve his helmet, ready to put it on and walk out of the ship. He has no idea how far they are from their destination and how long he still has, but it seems pointless to know. At least the kid seems to be doing better and Rex finds a little bit of comfort in that. 

“Did Jango know about the chips?” Rex asks him, because dedicating his last moments to punishing himself with painful knowledge suddenly seems like a good idea.

The kid stops walking and turns around to look at him with a confused frown on his face. “What chips?”

“The chips they put in our brains, to control us. So we’d turn against the Jedi and kill them all. So we’d obey the Emperor when he seized control of the Republic. Did Jango know?”

Boba blinks. Rex watches as confusion turns into outrage, then consideration, only to settle on an even more confused expression. 

“That’s what’s making them all so weird? A chip in their head?”

Rex grits his teeth. “Fett.”

“I don’t know!” the kid exclaims, frustrated. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t--” he stops and presses his lips together. He hesitates for a second, but then meets Rex’s gaze and there’s something like pity in his eyes and Rex hates it. “I don’t think he cared.”

Rex snorts. “Oh, really?” he asks sarcastically.

Boba scowls. “No, I mean-- he knew something. About why you guys were created. The real why, I mean. But I… I don’t think he cared how it happened.”

Now _this_ feels like being punched in the gut. Rex has always known Jango Fett didn’t give a shit about his clones and to be honest, Rex never gave a shit about him either. He only remembers seeing the man up-close once, how blank his stare had been, like he wasn’t even really seeing Rex. But Rex can’t help but think about Alpha and the others who were trained by a man who apparently knew they were all meant to turn against the Jedi, in the end.

Jango drilled loyalty to the Republic and to the Jedi into the Alpha class so they would be the best, so they could pass it on to others, all the while knowing the end goal was killing them all.

What a karking piece of shit. 

“How does it work?” the kid asks and he looks tense, worried. “The chip. How does it work?”

Rex tilts his head. Fett’s jaw is clenched and he’s not quite meeting Rex’s gaze, like he’s ashamed of asking and-- oh. 

Rex shakes his head. “You were grown to be his son, I doubt the longnecks implanted a chip in you.”

The kid glares at him. “My father wouldn’t have let them,” he sneers, but Rex can see the way his fists clench and he does think Boba doesn’t have a chip, it wouldn’t make sense for him to have one. But he understands how easy it is to start doubting. He’s caught himself touching the scar on the side of his head to remind himself the chip is gone more than once in the past five years.

“You’d need an atomic scan, if you wanted to make sure,” he tells him, just in case.

Boba opens his mouth, like he’s about to tell him he doesn’t plan to because _his father wouldn’t have let them_ , but he closes it and turns around to grab his helmet and shove it on his head instead.

The ramp opens and cold air rushes inside, making Rex shudder and curl on himself as much as he can in this position. The kid gets off the ship, leaving him alone with his thoughts once again. 

Rex barely notices him when the kid comes back. He feels like his head has been filled with cotton and the world is blurry. But then there’s a hand touching his face and Rex can feel the heat through the glove covering it and tries to lean into the touch. It’s gone immediately and Rex doesn’t whine, but it’s a close call.

“Shit,” the kid swears. “Hey, can you stand?”

Rex mumbles an affirmation and groans when the binders are suddenly detached from the wall, his arms falling by his sides. 

“Come on, get on your feet, Captain.”

Rex frowns. He’s not a Captain anymore, hasn’t been for a long time. The kid grabs his arm and puts it around his shoulders before helping him stand and Rex immediately presses his frozen body against the kid’s. His armor isn’t comfortable and it’s cold, but he can feel the heat radiating from the kid where Rex’s flesh meets his flight suit. 

“Kriff, you’re heavy,” Fett mutters, making Rex snort. He’s tempted to lean his weight even more against him, but decides against it when he remembers the kid’s leg is still injured.

Fett drags him to a narrow set of stairs and into what looks like a tiny cell block.

“Really?” he mutters, but the kid ignores him and takes him to one of the cells. There is a narrow cot and Rex supposes it’s a good thing he isn’t tall. Fett makes him sit, takes off the binders and gets out of the cell before closing it behind him.

And then he’s gone. 

Rex frowns. He supposes it is less cold here than in the cargo hold, but it’s still far from the temperatures he favours. Rex can’t stand the cold. It was always warm in Tipoca City, the Kaminoans needing a warmer environment than most species because of their cold blood. And then he rarely went anywhere without wearing his blacks, and the suit always protected him from the cold. There’s a reason he chose a warm planet to stay on after leaving Maul, for kriff’s sake. But at least it’s easier to curl up on himself to try and conserve as much body heat as possible without his hand bound to the wall. 

Small victories, right? 

He doesn’t expect Fett to come back so soon and frowns when he hears the sound of his footsteps going down the stairs. Rex looks up to find him standing there with his lips pinched.

“Here,” the kid says and hands him a bundle of clothes through the bars. 

He looks mere seconds from taking back his offer, so Rex quickly reaches out to grab the clothes. There’s a pair of underwear, a light blue shirt and black, soft pants that are definitely too big to belong to the kid.

It’s not hard to figure out who the clothes used to belong to and Rex resists the urge to scrunch up his nose. Beggars can’t be choosers, so he pulls them on and instantly feels better. 

When he looks up, Fett is staring at him with a blank face. Rex decides not to say anything. The mere thought of the kid still having those clothes stored somewhere on his ship after five years is heartbreaking and Rex doesn’t feel like sticking his hands in that awful can of worms.

They both remain silent until the kid finally sighs and hands him what appears to be rations and bacta. 

“For your nose,” he says. “And food.”

Rex tilts his head, intrigued. Fett’s face flushes red. “I don’t torture people,” he hisses and it sounds important to him. A line he refuses to cross. 

Well, good for him. Rex grabs the bacta and rations, and watches the kid turn around and go back upstairs. 

* * *

Rex sleeps. 

He doesn’t have anything to do anyway, and it’s better than thinking about what will happen to him when the kid delivers him to Vader. Plus, he is going to need the rest. The probability of escaping is tragically low, Rex isn’t naive enough to believe he actually stands a chance. But he can make sure Vader doesn’t get anything from him.

It should probably worry him, how detached and matter of fact he is about this. But he won’t let Vader use him, whether it is to find Ahsoka or whatever else he has in store for him. And if he can’t find a way to escape, then marching away with his mind intact and because he _chose_ to seems like the best alternative. 

He lived longer than he ever thought he would. He got to experience freedom for five years and it was far from perfect considering he did so by running away and hiding from the Empire with Maul, but it was still better than what his brothers got.

Ahsoka will be sad but… well, Rex would rather not think about her right now.

So Rex sleeps and Rex dreams.

He dreams of white walls with cracks in them. He doesn’t want to get closer but he does anyway, like something is pushing him forward, forcing him to take one step after another until he’s close enough to feel cold air seeping through one of the cracks and brush against his face. It smells like the sea after a storm, angry and dangerous; it smells like home. Rex brings his hand to one of the cracks and touches the edge, frowning when he feels something wet. He expects it to be water, from the rain or the ocean, but when he looks down his fingers are red and Rex takes a step back.

The cracks start oozing blood and Rex watches it stain the white walls and form a puddle on the floor.

There are voices coming from the other side of the wall. They’re strangely distorted and Rex can’t make out what they’re saying, if they’re even speaking Basic or another language he knows. Rex swallows around the lump in his throat and shuffles closer to the wall to peer inside the crack.

There is movement, and then a hand covered in black leather punches through the wall and wraps itself around Rex’s throat. 

Rex chokes and slams one hand against the wall, closes the other one around the wrist and tries to fight the tight grip on his throat. But it’s strong, stronger than he is, and Rex’s lungs start burning at the lack of air. 

“You cannot hide from me,” a voice says and it sounds like… but no, it’s impossible. 

“You can’t keep running away from the truth,” the voice says. 

Rex snarls and digs his nails in the leather glove, but whatever is underneath it doesn’t yield under the pressure. It’s too hard to be skin and flesh and Rex _knows_ who the hand belongs to, has seen it up close enough times to know exactly whose hand this is. 

“ _Why?_ ” Rex rasps despite himself.

“You know why,” another voice says, from behind him.

This one he can hear clearly and Rex doesn’t need to see him to know exactly who it belongs to. He can feel a warm body pressed against his back and two arms wound themselves around his chest. 

“He never really cared about you or your brothers,” Maul whispers sadly in his ear. His breath brushes against his neck and Rex shivers. 

“None one did. Even you didn’t care enough about them. You chose Lady Tano over them. And she didn’t even stay with you.”

Rex gasps and tries to move away from him, but the hand wrapped around his throat holds him into place. 

“You keep running away. From the truth. From me. Look where it got you,” Maul sighs regretfully and nuzzles Rex’s cheek. “You should have stayed with me.”

The hands on his chest travel upwards until they settle over his heart. Sharp claws prick his skin through his shirt and Rex groans at the sting. 

“You should have stayed with me,” Maul repeats. 

The hand around his throat squeezes. 

“You cannot hide from me,” Ana-- _Vader_ says.

Maul snarls into his ear and his fingers pierce through Rex’s chest, making him choke on a cry. Rex’s legs kick the air as the fingers keep digging deeper and the hand around his throat squeezes tighter.

Rex wakes up with a gasp. He sits on the cot, his heart beating frantically as he brings a shaky hand to wipe his sweat-covered face. 

“Fuck,” he swears hoarsely. 

Bile in his throat, Rex brushes his fingers against his throat and strokes his chest, the feeling of hands on him and _inside_ him still there despite being awake. Rex gives himself a few seconds to breathe before he looks up and takes in his surroundings. He refuses to linger on that dream. 

He’s alone, the cell block plunged in semi-darkness. There’s music coming from upstairs. Rex is pretty sure it’s from the same band Fives used to listen to on repeat and he can’t hold back a groan at the realisation. 

Of course the kid would have the same shit tastes. 

Rex has no means to know how long he’s been sleeping but he feels rested enough to guess it’s been at least five hours. His nose feels better, which means it probably isn’t broken and the wounds on his chest have healed as well, thanks to the bacta. He’s hungry again, but it’s not torture yet so Rex can ignore it for now. 

Rex stands and stretches with a groan, then starts investigating his cell. It’s so tiny Rex can almost touch both walls by simply stretching his arms and there’s nothing but a cot and what he assumes is a vacc tube. This part of the ship appears to be slightly more recent than the rest, so Rex assumes Boba is the one who had those tiny cells built in there. He supposes it makes sense, considering his occupation. 

The thing is, new installations mean Rex probably won’t find anything useful for a potential escape, not even a loose screw to hide and use later. Rex sighs and brushes a hand against the back of his head. His hair is getting long and he can’t help but think he should do something about it before he remembers it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Rex scowls. 

He thought he’d made up his mind, but he supposes he can’t easily ignore the habit of fighting to survive after doing it for over fifteen years. 

There is more noise above his head. The sound of feet walking heavily on the floor, of someone moving stuff around. The music gets louder and is accompanied by the sound of welding. He supposes the kid is taking care of his armor. Rex sits on his cot and puts his arm behind his head before leaning against the wall behind him. 

He never wondered what happened to Boba after Jango’s death. To be fair, Rex had never met the kid before today and he already had enough things to worry about. He heard about what the kid did to that star destroyer and how it led to Ponds’ death, but that’s about it.

Boba never cared about any of them and in return, they didn’t care about him.

And it’s only fair, right?

Except… maybe it isn’t. 

Boba didn’t ask to be the one the longnecks chose to give to Jango. He didn’t choose to be raised by a paranoïd asshole who kept him away from everyone else. Rex can’t imagine what losing Jango must have been. They couldn’t be more different in many aspects, but if there is something they share, it’s their ability to survive no matter what. 

Rex bets the kid hates that, the thought of sharing anything with Rex and his brothers. 

Fett is moving again. His feet dragging on the floor make it obvious that his wound is still bothering him. Rex doesn’t feel bad about it, the kid attacked him and it’s probably not the first time he got injured on a job. And he did manage to drag Rex all the way back to his ship. 

The kid must have climbed the ladder, because Rex can’t hear him walk anymore. What he can hear is him shuffling through different songs, letting them start for a few seconds before jumping to the next one. Rex clenches his jaw.

“Make up your mind, for kriff’s sake,” he mutters, annoyed.

Finally, he stops changing but it’s just worse. 

Rex groans. The kid said he didn’t torture people, but this does feel pretty close to it. 

He closes his eyes and tries to forget the screaming and banging, only to open them again when he realizes Fett is coming back down. 

He’s out of armor, which shows just how confident he is in his security system. He isn’t wearing his flight suit either, so Rex can only assume they still have a long way before they reach their destination. The shirt he is wearing is way too big for him and Rex is hit by how thin the kid is compared to him. He’s all bones and sharp muscles, but he still looks like a kid, especially with the bad acne covering his face. It’s funny, Rex remembers some brothers having it worse than others, but he doesn’t think it’s ever been that bad. Then again, their diet was so strict it probably helped. 

His dark curls are a mess on the top of his head, and his haircut is a bit uneven, like he tried to cut his own hair to keep it under control. Rex can’t help but feel a pang of sadness at the sight, because he knows what it’s like to have no one left to help trim your hair. If he squints, Rex can make out the tentative peach fuzz growing on his chin and above his upper lip. 

He looks…

He looks like the last batch of shinies Rex got from Kamino before the end of the war. But his eyes are as dark and tired as Rex’s and his scowl reminds him of Cody’s.

Shit.

The kid edges closer to the cell and hands him two rations and a cup filled with water. Rex makes a face.

“I thought you didn’t torture people.”

Fett blinks and frowns. “What?”

Rex points his chin at the rations. “Between those and the compilation of aiwha screams you’ve been listening to for the past two hours, I’m starting to doubt your statement.”

An angry flush takes place on the kid’s face and Rex would lie if he said it wasn’t incredibly satisfying.

“You’re one to talk, with the girly shit you were listening to when I found you. And what’s wrong with rations? Those are nicer than the ones you’ve been eating your whole life.”

Rex rolls his eyes. “I haven’t eaten one of those in years.”

It _was_ one of the perks of living with Maul. Zabraks are carnivorous and fierce predators. Maul refused to eat rations, even the meat-based ones, and feeding Rex with _proper food_ seemed very important to him. Hunting also seemed to calm the Sith, somehow. Like giving in this basic instinct grounded and settled him. It meant less arguments and free food for Rex who was more than happy to let Maul disappear for a few hours on a hunt. 

“Yeah, well, you’re eating them now,” the kid mutters.

Rex arches a brow. “You gonna force-feed me?” 

Fett scoffs. “You’re not stupid enough to starve yourself just because you don’t like the food.”

He’s right. Rex sighs and stands up to grab the rations and water. He expects the kid to leave but he stays here, his eyes fixed on him intently. 

“Are you really going to stay here to make sure I eat?” Rex groans.

“I want the cup back, once you’re done.”

Rex resists the urge to roll his eyes and puts the cup of water on the floor before unwrapping one of the rations to take a bite. The kid is right, these _are_ nicer than the ones he used to eat during the war. They actually taste like something for one. Rex is in no rush to go back to being alone with his thoughts, so he takes his time and looks up to meet the kid’s gaze.

“So, how long until we reach our destination?” he asks, like they’re simply traveling together. 

Fett frowns. For a second, Rex thinks he won’t reply, but he opens his mouth after a beat. “Five days.”

Trying to figure out where he’s taking him is impossible and pointless, so Rex simply hums and takes another bite of his food. “Five days left, and all I have to eat are those,” he says with a forlorn sigh. 

“Did your chip malfunction?” the kid asks suddenly, taking him by surprise. 

Rex swallows harshly, the ration turning sour in his mouth. “No, it worked perfectly.”

Fett tilts his head with a frown, and it’s like watching Echo trying to figure out a portion of code he doesn’t quite understand yet. _I don’t know who wrote this sir, but it’s osik,_ he can hear the ARC mutter under his breath. 

“Did that Maul guy take it out?” 

“Something like that, yeah.”

Rex has no idea if Vader knows about Ahsoka, but he isn’t about to disclose anything about her to Fett. The kid looks like he wants to ask more questions, but he closes his mouth and swallows them back. Rex has been on his own for six months and he has to admit that he missed having someone to talk to, even if they’re as bad as Boba Fett at making conversation. He wonders how long it has been for the kid. Surely, he can’t have been entirely on his own since his father’s death. 

Rex finishes the first ration, takes a sip of water and opens the second one. 

“You should get your armor adjusted,” he says around a mouthful and watches as Fett’s eyes light up with anger.

“You should mind your own business.”

“It’s too big for you. It slows you down.”

“That armor was my father’s, and--”

“And it’s too big for you. You either need to put on some muscles or get it adjusted.”

Fett’s face flushes a dark red at the mention of his lack of bulk. “You lost,” he mutters petulantly. 

Rex snorts. “I was hungover,” he feels the need to clarify. “And you would have bled out and died without my help, so I’d say none of us won.”

“You’re the one behind bars.”

“Because I couldn’t let you die. Get your armor adjusted, Boba.”

Fett bristles at the sound of his name. “I managed to survive this far. I don’t need your stupid advice,” he snaps and storms out as fast as he can with his injured leg.

Rex huffs. He’s keeping the cup, then.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it folks, last chapter! 👀
> 
> But since I have two WIPs and at least four more fic ideas set in this universe... well, this isn't the end for Rex and Boba. *sigh*
> 
> Thanks for the love and support! 💕

Boba pours hot water into the cups and closes the lids. He grabs two forks and makes his way towards the cargo bay. Piling one cup on top of the other, Boba gets down the ladder carefully and heads towards the cells. 

He’s being stupid. He knows this and yet he can't stop doing it. It’s been two days since he managed to capture the clone. Two days since he shared his first meal with him and for some reason he refuses to look into, Boba just keeps doing it.

The clone is an annoying bastard, but sitting down to share a meal with someone else is something Boba hasn’t done since he left Bossk and the others. He hates to admit it, but he _missed_ the company. The first time, he only did it because he figured he might as well eat while waiting for the clone to be done to retrieve the empty cup of water and ration wraps. 

But here he is, ready to share some of his favourite instant noodles because the clone keeps making a face whenever Boba gives him rations and he does feel kind of bad knowing those are probably his last meals. He _hates_ seeing him make that sad, disappointed face when he looks so much like his father, is even wearing his father’s clothes - and wasn’t _tha_ t a karking mistake, but what was Boba supposed to do? Let him stay naked? No thank you. 

Rex is nothing like Jango. 

No, that’s not true. He is smart, like his father was. He is also observant and Boba can feel him analyse and scrutinize everything Boba says and does and that’s definitely something his father used to do too.

He is stubborn, infuriatingly so. 

There’s also shadows in his eyes Boba remembers seeing in his father’s when he thought Boba wasn’t watching. Ghosts haunting him. Guilt. It’s eating away at him the same way it did his father, but the difference is that the clone hasn’t let it consume him entirely yet.

The way he smirks whenever he manages to upset Boba makes him look so much like his father Boba’s heart aches whenever it happens. And it happens a lot.

But he doesn’t carry himself the way Jango did. He doesn’t speak like his father did either. His accent is different, but he’s also a lot less stingy with words than his father was. Jango was a quiet man who would often rather express something with a look than using words. Small talk wasn’t a thing his father participated in, unless he really didn’t have a choice and it always seemed to pain him.

The clone doesn’t mind small talk. 

He kind of talks a lot, actually. Or maybe Boba grew so used to the quiet and to being alone it feels like the clone has a lot to say. He wonders if he’s always been like this, but something tells him the answer is no. He talks a lot, but sometimes it feels like it’s about filling in the blanks left by others in his life, rather than the actual need to express his thoughts. Or maybe he’s just trying to piss off Boba, because that does seem to amuse him immensely. 

Boba finds the clone lying on the cot with his hands behind his head and his feet propped against the wall. He shifts his head to look at him when he hears him approaching and his face does something funny when he sees that Boba isn’t carrying the usual rations he brings him. Boba perches himself on top of the crate he pushed near the cell two days ago and hands him one of the cups through the bars.

The clone stands and reaches out to grab it. 

“What is it?” he asks, tilting his head as he peers down to examine the cup. 

“Instant noodles. I just added water, leave it be for a couple minutes.”

The clone hums. “Never had those before.”

Boba shrugs. “It’s alright.” 

“Ah, so it’s probably disgusting,” he sighs and Boba can’t help it, he snorts at that. “Are you too lazy to cook, or do you not know how to?” 

Boba scowls. He sure knows how to sour the mood. “Why, you planning on giving me lessons?” he mutters and rolls his eyes.

“I could,” the clone shrugs and Boba’s breath hitches.

He thinks about quiet evenings on Kamino, with his father out of armor, his sleeves rolled up around his forearms as he precisely cuts vegetables. Jango didn’t cook often, the nanny droid who used to take care of Boba when his father wasn’t home was also here for this, so every time he did decide to get in the kitchen always felt a bit special. His father never really said anything, but it was obvious that those moments were an opportunity for him to teach, to pass on things he had learned from his own father. It was in the way he said things, like he was repeating words he’d been told again and again by someone who loved him as much as Jango loved Boba.

Boba _could_ cook, it’s not hyperdrive science and he’s always been a fast learner. But cooking was something special he shared with his father and Boba doesn’t think he can stand the thought of doing it alone. There’s already so much he has to do on his own, he doesn’t think he can add this one to the list.

“No thank you.” 

The clone sighs. “Fine, eat garbage and stay scrawny.”

Boba bristles. “I’m not scrawny!”

“You are. You’re also smaller than me and considering you’re pretty much done growing up, it’s going to stay that way.”

“I only just turned eighteen, I could still grow a couple inches!”

The clone barks a laugh at that. “A _couple_ inches? You’re hilarious.”

What an asshole. Boba glares at him, peels the lid off his cup and plunges his fork inside to steer the noodles. The clone imitates him, but frowns when he sees the content of the cup. He brings it closer to sniff at it curiously and Boba rolls his eyes.

“It won’t kill you,” he mumbles and stabs his noodles before coiling some around his fork. 

The clone watches him carefully, eyebrows raising to his hairline and lips parting in a silent ‘oh’. And then he’s back to frowning again.

“Natborn food is so weird,” he says. “This is hardly practical.” 

He copies Boba’s motion, struggling to properly wrap the noodles around his fork before lifting it up to stare at it, his nose scrunched up. Boba feels the beginning of a smile tugging at his lips and quickly shoves his fork into his mouth to hide it. It’s too hot and Boba barely holds back a whine as the scalding noodles burn his tongue. He breathes through his nose, chews fast with his lips parted to try and bring colder air into his mouth and soothe the burn. The clone stares at him with an eyebrow raised, unimpressed, and Boba forces himself to swallow. 

“Do you need me to blow on your food, ad?” he cooes and Boba almost throws his cup of noodles at his stupid face.

“Shut up and eat,” he rasps.

The clone smirks, but he does stop talking and eats his food. He remains mostly quiet through their meal, that is until he starts pointing out what a messy eater Boba is, making him flush angrily again and mind his manners. Mostly so the clone shuts up, and not at all because it reminds him of his father telling him to chew his food and not gobble it down. 

“See? It wasn’t so bad,” Boba says once they’re done eating.

“Were you born with ageusia, or did it develop after getting hit too many times in the head?” the clone asks dryly.

“I don’t even know what that is,” Boba replies and hops off the crate. It’s not hard to deduce what the clone means, but it’s much better to pretend he doesn’t; especially when it makes the clone look at Boba with something akin to fond exasperation in his eyes. He retrieves the cup and fork and watches as the clone lies down on his bunk with a sigh. 

He must be so kriffing bored. Boba thinks he would be going insane if he was in his position. Well, he actually _was,_ but being bored in the Coruscant detention center meant he wasn’t getting the shit beaten out of him and then he’d had Bossk. The Trandoshan wasn’t particularly talkative, but at least Boba had had someone to annoy. The clone doesn’t even have that, since Boba usually spends the day upstairs and only gets down when it’s time to eat. 

Boba can’t help but wonder what the clone usually does to pass time, now that he isn’t fighting anymore. He can’t really have been spending the past five years drinking alcohol and sunbathing naked on the beach, right? 

Boba remembers the intricate paintings and the tattoos some of the clones used to have, so he assumes some of them developed artistic skills in their free time. It doesn’t seem to be something the former captain of the 501st indulged in. 

And why the kriff is Boba wondering what his _hobbies_ are? It’s not like he’s going to give him a set of painting tools or a holodrama to watch. 

Boba scowls and gets out of here before he starts having stupid ideas. 

He spends the rest of the day with his nose buried in the slicing program he’s been trying to develop for the past few months. Slicing is useful, Boba found out on a job that would have gone so much faster if he’d known how to. So he started learning and it’s actually one of his favourite things to do to occupy himself during long hyperspace travels. It’s also a good way to focus on something that helps him forget about everything else. Boba manages to make satisfying progress and entirely forgets about the clone locked in the cell under his feet. That is until his stomach rumbles loudly. Boba looks up from his datapad and has to blink a few times to erase the lines of code basically imprinted onto his retina at this point. 

Boba stares at the viewport for a few seconds before he finally pulls his feet off the dashboard to stand and stretch with a yawn. The motion gets him a whiff of his own scent and Boba scrunches up his nose. He _hates_ using the sonic because it never feels like he’s clean enough without using an actual water shower, but it’s still better than nothing. So he heads down to the living quarters, gets out of his clothes and steps inside the sonic. It does have the advantage of being fast, but really, Boba misses the long showers he could take back on Kamino. The water pressure was always perfect and Boba had no idea this was considered a luxury until he had to leave Kamino and never came back. He doesn’t even want to think about taking a bath, because then he might start crying.

Boba gets out of the sonic and opens one of the cupboards above the bed. It’s still mostly filled with his father’s clothes and a few items he bought for himself through the years. Boba mostly wears his flight suit and armor and there usually isn’t anyone to see him in clothes too big for him when he’s stuck in hyperspace for a while so he never bothered with actively refilling his wardrobe.

None of them smell like his father anymore, only the same detergent he used and it’s not much, but Boba grew used to finding comfort in the smallest things. Boba grabs a fresh set of clothes and gets dressed, rolling the too-long sleeves around his forearm with a scowl. The clone was right, he _is_ shorter. 

Right. The clone.

Boba should just bring him food and leave. Getting used to having someone to eat with and talk to is stupid. He’ll be gone in a few days and then Boba will have to get used to being alone again. It shouldn’t bother him that much. He’s been alone since he left the Krayt’s Claw and it was _fine_ at first. Working alone means he doesn’t have to worry about getting stabbed in the back. It means no one invading his space and touching things they shouldn’t aboard the Slave I. It means he makes the rules and he doesn’t have to worry about other people not following them or worse, having to follow someone else’s lead. 

It means there’s no one to see him when he’s having a bad day and can’t get out of bed because everything is just _too much_ . No one to call him _kid_ and belittle him or underestimate him.

But it also means he’s responsible for every decision he takes. Every mistake he makes. It means there’s no one to watch his back if things go wrong. 

How did his father do it, and why is it so hard for Boba?

The clone’s presence is messing with him. It’s not the first time Boba realizes how lonely he is and how it affects him, but it’s usually easier to push it back and ignore it.

Boba opens the kitchen cupboard and stares at the stack of rations and noodle cups with a frown. The clone isn’t even _nice._ He’s a dick who keeps making unsolicited comments and seems to thrive on making Boba flush angrily, like there’s nothing funnier than upsetting him. _You should get your armor adjusted_ , like Boba doesn’t _know_ his father’s armor is too big for him, but what is he supposed to do? It’s not full beskar, but a part of him still thinks only a Mandalorian should get to touch it and it’s stupid because Boba isn’t even Mandalorian and he’s wearing it. But there’s no Mando he would trust with this armor, and none of them would agree to fix it for him anyway. 

He’s not letting anyone get their hand on his father’s armor. And since all Boba can do is basic maintenance, he’s going to keep dealing with the fact that it’s too big for him until he gets big enough to fill it properly. 

So the clone’s advice was not only unsolicited, it was also completely useless. 

But… Boba supposes it’s nice to have someone who cares. 

Still, Boba should know better. But he doesn’t, so he prepares two cups of instant noodles and gets down to find the clone already waiting for him.

* * *

On the third day, Boba is about to throw the pipes he’s holding onto the wall in a fit of rage when he remembers he has a perfectly fit clone locked up in a cell downstairs. He freezes and scowls. He doesn’t _want_ to ask him for help, but he’s obviously not strong enough to unscrew this stupid thing on his own and he _needs_ to do it if he wants to replace the damaged part. It hasn’t been changed in years - the last person to do it was his father, which is why the two parts are screwed up so tightly - and Boba has been postponing repairs for too long already. Boba bites the inside of his cheek and keeps staring at the pipes like they insulted him. 

He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? It’s either asking for the clone’s help, or finding someone to repair it and Boba definitely doesn’t want to do that. He’s not wasting credits when he’s perfectly capable of repairing it himself and Boba doesn’t like people touching the Slave I if he can avoid it anyway. 

Boba sighs and mutters a command to lower down the volume of the music, before heading down to the cell block. The clone has removed his shirt and is using the scarce space he has to do push-ups by supporting his weight on the edge of his cot. Boba freezes and can’t help but stare at the scars on the clone’s left shoulder and in the center of his back. They both look like old blaster wounds and the second one definitely seems like it barely missed his heart. 

Lucky bastard.

“Hey,” he calls, but the clone doesn’t stop to acknowledge his presence. 

Boba takes a step closer. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

“I heard,” he huffs but he still doesn’t face Boba.

What a dick. “I need you to unscrew this for me,” he mutters and hands him the pipes through the bars.

For a second, he thinks the clone is going to ignore him again, but he does two more push-ups and finally straightens up. When he turns around, his face is slightly flushed and there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering his chest. He takes a look at the pipes and arches a brow at Boba who feels his own face heat up.

“It’s screwed up tight.”

“Alright, I’ll do it,” the clone says but doesn’t make a move to take the pipes.

Boba grinds his teeth together. “Now?”

“Sure. I want a datapad in exchange.”

Boba blinks. “I-- what? Absolutely not.”

The clone shrugs. “Good luck, then,” he says and turns around.

“Wait! Why do you even want a datapad?”

The clone faces him again and looks at him like Boba is stupid. “Because I’m kriffing bored?”

Well, yes, of course he’s bored. But he’s also Boba’s prisoner, he’s supposed to make sure he is unharmed and fed, not entertain him. Plus, Boba doesn’t like sharing his stuff. But he really needs to fix this now and he’s been trying to unscrew the kriffing pipes for half an hour now so he knows he definitely won’t be able to do it alone. 

“Look, I don’t have anyone to contact for help and if you’re worried about your porn history, just create a session with a restricted access.”

Boba’s face flushes a bright red. “I don’t have a porn history!” he exclaims.

The clone gives him a flat look.

“I _don’t_! Shut up!” 

“Well then, what’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem! I’ll give you a datapad!” Boba snarls and throws the pipes on the crate next to the cell before storming out to go find the datapad he left in his quarters. He finds it on the nightstand and grabs it, ready to go back downstairs before he remembers the clone’s words.

Boba makes a frustrated noise, powers the datapad on and quickly creates a new session so the clone _won’t_ access his data. This isn’t about… well, maybe it is, but it’s none of his kriffing business what he looks up on the holonet anyway. He makes sure the clone won’t be able to log onto his session and goes back downstairs. The clone has put his shirt back on and is waiting for him with his arms crossed in front of his chest, a smug smile on his face.

“Here,” Boba mutters and hands him the datapad through the bars.

The clone immediately grabs it and lights up the screen. He looks up to give Boba a knowing smile, making his face heat up again.

“Not a word,” he hisses through his teeth.

“Sure. Give me the pipes.”

Boba does and watches as the clone looks at it carefully, before unscrewing it in one swift motion. He even has the audacity to look a bit disappointed when he hands the two parts to Boba who does his best not to gawk at him.

This is fine. Boba has been toying with it for so long he probably made it a lot easier for the clone to unscrew it anyway. Boba presses his lips together and snatches the two parts out of the clone’s hands. 

He points at the datapad the clone dropped on his cot. “Don’t you dare use it to jerk off to the kinky shit you’re probably into,” Boba hisses.

The clone arches a brow. “Do we need to have a talk about sex positivity, Bob’ika?” 

Boba bristles. “Don’t call me that! And _no_ , ew!” 

“Are you sure? Because you seem very embarrassed by all this, when really, it’s perfectly normal to--”

“I can’t hear you!” Boba shouts and immediately retreats back.

“-- have needs, especially at your age, and--”

“Oh for kriff’s sake, shut the fuck up!” Boba whines, his face a bright red as he runs out of the block cell. 

“It’s okay to masturbate, Boba!” the clone shouts behind him.

Boba makes the most inhuman sound and shouts at the central computer to start playing music at maximum volume.

* * *

On the fourth day, Boba is halfway through his cup of noodles when he realizes Rex has been oddly quiet. He looks up, only to find him staring at his own cup with a frown.

“It’s the nerf ones, you said you liked those better,” Boba mutters around a mouthful of food.

He expects a witty come back, but Rex’s frown deepens and the silence stretches until he finally looks up to meet Boba’s gaze. 

“Your contract will be over the second you deliver me to Vader and get your credits, right?” he asks.

Boba freezes with his fork up in the air and his mouth open. Right. They still have a little less than twenty hours before they reach Mustafar and after that, Re-- the clone will be gone. Boba didn’t forget. He just… stopped thinking about it.

“Uh. Yeah. Why?”

“Because I have a favour to ask you,” the clone says carefully.

Boba drops his hand and nods for him to continue.

“I need you to find me a weapon I can hide until I get the opportunity to use it.”

Boba snorts. “On _Vader?_ Yeah, good luck with that.” He rolls his eyes and takes another bite of food. Clearly, he hasn’t seen Vader in action if he thinks he can take him and with what, a kitchen knife? 

“On myself, Boba,” the clone sighs.

Boba chokes on his food. One of the noodles ventures too far and Boba hacks and almost spills the content of his cup on his thighs in his struggle. He wheezes, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes before he finally manages to breathe properly again.

“ _What?_ ” he rasps out. 

The clone gives him a tired look. “What do you think’s gonna happen to me, kid?”

“I don’t know. I don’t--” _care_ , he almost says, his automatic response. And he should say it. Because it’s true, isn’t it? That’s one of the first rules of the Guild. He isn’t supposed to care about what happens to his bounties once he delivers them. He definitely isn’t supposed to ask questions. 

And he’s a _clone_ , why would Boba care about him?

“Best case scenario, he kills me once he realizes I don’t have the information he wants. I’d rather avoid the torture that’ll happen before, but I don’t really have a choice, right? Worst case scenario, he keeps me and uses me to find what he wants. Or he finds a way to put a chip back in my head. I’m not letting that happen, and since my chances of escaping are close to zero and I’m not stupid enough to think I can take him in a fight, I only have one way out.”

Boba opens his mouth. Closes it. 

It’s… a perfectly sound reasoning. Boba doesn’t doubt the clone’s abilities in a fight, but his chances would already be low if he was in full-gear and tried to take the Sith Lord by surprise, but he’ll be bound and watched by multiple eyes so attempting to attack Vader would just be stupid. Boba doesn’t know what’s more likely to happen between Vader killing Rex when he realizes he isn’t useful or keeping him because he has this weird fixation on him, but the latter seems more likely to happen and…

Boba supposes he gets it. Between death and a life of servitude, he would probably choose death too. So why does it bother him so much? He knew what was going to happen to him the moment he took the job. Find the clone, capture him, take him to Mustafar and let Vader do whatever he wants to him. He knew that might mean death or slavery for the clone.

But he didn’t know _Rex_ , then.

“I’m not helping you commit suicide,” he hisses and glares at him.

Rex frowns. “I’m going to die either way. And it’s not like you haven’t killed before, so what’s the problem?”

“You-- it’s not--” Boba sputters. “It’s not the same!”

“Boba--”

“No! Shut up! I don’t do _favours_ , okay? Vader hired me to capture and deliver you and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Nothing more, nothing less. Are you gonna eat or not?”

Rex presses his lips together, puts his fork in the cup and hands it over to Boba who snatches it before storming out. 

He ends up in the cargo bay and snarls, throws the cups and their content against the closest wall and climbs the ladder to go hide in his quarters. 

“Music, 80 percent,” he barks and the sound of loud guitars and screaming immediately starts blasting from the speakers he installed on different parts of the ship. 

Boba flops down on his bunk and buries his face in his pillow to muffle his scream. He’s such a karking idiot. _This_ is why you don’t _hang out_ with your bounties, Boba, he thinks bitterly. But he couldn’t help himself, could he? He just _had_ to keep going downstairs and make small talk, share meals with the clone and banter like they’re… _friends_ , or whatever. 

Rex isn’t his friend. Boba doesn’t do _friends_ , because he tried when he was thirteen and stupid and it didn’t work out well for him. It never does, and Rex is no different. 

_They’re not his brothers,_ he remembers his father hissing at Skirata one day, after he’d told his six freaks to ‘play nice with their _vod’ika’_ . _You can play house with your little monsters if you want, Skirata, but leave my son out of it._

Boba didn’t try to approach the Nulls again after that. No matter how lonely it got on Kamino - especially when his father was away on a job - Boba watched the clones from afar and slowly grew to despise them as much as his father did.

It was easier that way, and now that he’s older, Boba realizes maybe it was the same for his father. Or maybe his father actually didn’t care and this is just another proof of how much Boba is failing to be anything like him.

_They’re just numbers_ , Boba told himself when he started feeling jealous of the bonds they shared. But they’re not. Rex has a name. Jax and the others had one, too. They might have chosen it themselves because they had no one to give them one, but does it really matter? _Dad loves me_ , he would think with his heart in his throat whenever the irrational fear of being replaced would hit him. Why would his father bother with a son who wasn’t good enough, when he had an almost unlimited supply to choose from if he ever wanted to? 

_They’re all going to die anyway,_ Boba told himself when Aurra told him to sabotage the _Endurance’_ s reactor core. So he did it, and spent the following years having nightmares about it.

He still does, sometimes.

Will Rex haunt him like CT-411 still does? Will he wake up screaming because he saw Aurra standing with her blaster aimed at the clone’s face, only for him to turn into his father the moment she shoots him in the head? Will he see Rex like he does his father whenever he looks at himself in the mirror? 

He can’t do this again. 

Boba growls into his pillow. What would his father think, if he could see him? Would he be disappointed to know Boba can’t look at a clone and not see him? Boba feels tears gathering at the corner of his eyes at the thought. He doesn’t _want_ to see the clones as anything but cannon fodder. 

If he does, if he acknowledges that they might be more than this, then what does it say about his father? Boba can’t go down that road. He _refuses_ to even think about it. But the proof is right under his feet, trapped in a cell because no matter what Boba’s plan was for him, Rex refused to let him bleed out and die alone on the floor.

Does that really make the clone stupid? Or does it just make him the honorable man Boba thought his father was?

It’s not the first time Boba wishes for his father to be here with him. But he usually does because he misses him and wants Jango to comfort him, to hold him and tell him what to do. Right now, Boba wishes he was here so he could yell at him. So he could ask him _why_ and _how_ he is supposed to not care when his father left him alone in a galaxy with millions of other men wearing his face. 

“Kark you,” he snarls and springs to his feet. 

He punches the button to open the door and heads towards the cockpit. Boba slumps on the cockpit chair and pulls up the navicomputer screen. He bites the inside of his cheek until he can taste blood and stares at the coordinates he entered four days ago. 

He hasn’t contacted Vader to tell him he had the clone. It’s a habit Boba took a few years ago, even if everything seems to be going well, he can’t afford to brag about a capture and show up empty handed because shit hit the fan. 

Boba takes a deep breath and opens a new tab to enter a new set of coordinates and lets the navicomputer work its magic.

He’s going to drop the clone off somewhere, help him disappear and tell Vader he couldn’t find him. 

He won’t sleep better at night, but at least he won’t be adding another face to the ones already haunting him. 


End file.
